


The Road Home

by glennjaminhow



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Boys Kissing, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Codependency, Intimacy, M/M, Making Out, Mutual Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Secrets, Sleeping Together, Soft Boys, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-25 23:53:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20034406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glennjaminhow/pseuds/glennjaminhow
Summary: Mac and Dennis have been kissing each other since they met.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This whole thing is so soft, and I am so not sorry.

_November 10, 1992_

There are yellow stars on the ceiling.

Plastic and glow in the dark, they’ve been there since he was five. Josefina put them up when he cried every night about the monster in his closet.

“Mister Dennis,” Josefina would say, voice calm like a crisp autumn morning. “There are no such things as monsters.”

That dumb bitch.

Of course there are monsters. Remember Ted Bundy? He’s a monster. Or Jeffrey Dahmer? Those fuckers murdered for shits and giggles, not even batting an eyelash as they strangled, stabbed, mutilated their victims. People who kill are monsters. People who defile another human being are monsters. People like Ms… It doesn’t matter. It’ll never matter.

He lies on his bed staring up at his ceiling, hands behind his head. His room smells like cinnamon and cloves. It’s a couple weeks till Thanksgiving, and Josefina keeps babbling about the feast she must prepare. Mom and Dad are in Fiji. Dee is somewhere, thankfully, that isn’t here. Where she would be is beyond him; it’s not like she has friends or anywhere to be. But it doesn’t matter. He isn’t sure anything will ever matter again.

The yellow stars are peeling. Eventually, they won’t have any stickiness left. They’ll fall from the sky and plunge down to earth. They’ll be part of the world again. When they come back, maybe he can come back too, from where he’s hovering just above his body. He watches the yellow stars in hopes that they can teach him something about how to be real again. Except they’re fake. They aren’t real stars, and even someone as delusional as he is knows that.

No. He isn’t delusional. Or crazy. Or fucked up. He’s just… not here.

Dad screams at him for not making eye contact, for staring off into space when he’s speaking, for falling asleep in every class. Mom sneaks into his room at night, cold fingers against his waist, wine on her breath, and reminds him to stay small and smart, to keep his composure, to be the very best so she can be proud. Dee calls him a psychopath, tells him he’s insane, that he can’t keep mimicking emotions because he doesn’t have any.

But they’re not here.

No one is here.

No one is here to tell him what he should be, what he isn’t, what he’ll never be.

No one is here to slap him around. No one is here to log his twice daily weigh ins and hide his scars. No one is here to insult him every time he turns around.

No one.

He is unglued, unhinged, but so so out of touch with the universe. He watches himself lie quietly, lifelelessly, in a bed familiar yet foreign. It isn’t like him. This isn’t like him. He should get up, Grab a beer. Light a cigarette. Go to a party. Get some pussy. Assert his dominance on Philly because that’s who he is. He is the life of the party. He is the person everyone should strive to be. He is a golden god. He is eternal. He is the center of the galaxy.

Him. No one else. But him.

The yellow stars blind his eyes as the world darkens around him. It’s Tuesday night. Adriano Calvanese throws killer parties. He should go. Or maybe he should throw the party of a century. No one’s here. Might as well. But he doesn’t feel like moving. This is safe. It’s comfortable. He doesn’t have to keep up appearances or be the center of the galaxy. He can just… be.

He’s been here all day, staring at these stars waiting for one of them to fall. If it falls, he knows he can too.

“Dude, you in there?” he hears.

The voice sends Dennis flailing up right, heart hammering in his throat and breathing heavily. Shit. He isn’t dressed. He isn’t wearing makeup. He hasn’t brushed his hair. He’s a mess he’s a mess he’s a mess. No one likes messes.

“Alright, bro. I’m comin’ in!”

Dennis attempts to tame his hair, but it’s a lost cause. He’ll never get it under control with this short of notice. It takes hours to look that good.

Mac bounds in, flicking on the light and slinging his backpack to the floor. Dennis squints and almost covers his ears as the breathing, the chewing, the scuffing, the shuffling, the dragging punctures his ears. No. He can’t do that. He can’t do that right now.

“Dude, where were you?” Mac asks, voice an octave higher than usual. He plops onto Dennis’ unmade bed. Shit. He didn’t even make his bed. He starts telling a story, something about a grilled cheese scheme and shredding at the skate park. Except Mac doesn’t know how to cook shit and certainly doesn’t know anything about skating, so it’s all irrelevant. “So?”

Dennis shrugs. He keeps biting the skin around his thumb nail. “So what?”

Mac rolls his eyes. The dude’s such a little bitch. “So where were you today?”

“Here,” he answers simply.

“Duh, Den. But why? You weren’t at school.”

He shrugs. “Didn’t feel like going.”

Mom is proud of his attendance record. Mom is proud of his grades. Mom is proud of his drive and tenacity when it comes to school work. Why wouldn’t she be? Dee sucks ass at everything she touches, but Dennis? Dennis is the prized son, her special boy. But waking up today without Mom in his bed, without his space being crowded, is a curse as much as it is a blessing. He didn’t have the motivation to go to school, much less get up and dressed. Rosalita came to check on him, but she split as soon as she finished her shit for the day, murmuring something about needing a Goddamn break from these spoiled, entitled, white bitches, a.k.a. his parents and sister.

So, yeah, he didn’t feel like going. He sees the confusion in Mac’s eyes, and he doesn’t like it. He shrinks back against the headboard, unsure of what to say next. He and Mac haven’t been hanging out for that long, only around a month. Mac, formerly known as Ronnie the Rat, is the school’s only drug dealer. Dennis befriended him out of pity, but also because he gives him bud for free. He’s just so… grubby and weird and gross, but he has a nice smile, and somehow that evens out the fact that Mac only wears steel toed boots and Dickies every Goddamn day.

“You sick or something?” Mac asks. “You’re wearing pajamas.”

Dennis almost glances down at his attire, but he refuses to be weak. “What’s with the questions? You act like you’ve never skipped school before.”

“Yeah, but that’s, like, when me ‘n Charlie are chilling in the sewers or hotwiring cars. It’s outta necessity.”

“How are either of those things necessary?”

Mac sits up straighter. “Don’t act all ‘holier than those,’ dude. It’s unbecoming.”

Dennis looks at him. “It’s ‘holier than thou,’ asshole. Aren’t you supposed to be Catholic?”

“Aren’t you s’posed to be fucking that librarian lady right now because you’re her little bitch?”

Dennis stops breathing. He stops thinking, looking, blinking. He

What the fuck does that mean why does Mac know does everyone know does the whole school know it’s supposed to be a secret that’s what she always says now it’s gonna hurt worse because she said if he told if he squealed if he went to anyone about it it was gonna be ‘less fun’ he doesn’t want it he tells her no tells her to stop stopped going to the library point blank years ago but she corners him she finds him she always finds him her office smells like stale coffee and old books and there’s a sofa she pins him against nails scraping down his back her grip is a fire and Dennis’ body is the burning bundle of logs please make it stop please make it

“Whoa, dude. Don’t get so pissed off.”

He isn’t pissed he’s done how does Mac know he’s been trying so hard to keep it a secret

“She’s so creepy. I’ve seen her follow you around before. I saw you go into her office, like, three days ago after school.”

What he’s careful he’s careful he’s careful

“I don’t get it. What’s she make you do in there?”

Nothing he does nothing she does nothing it’s all a giant misunderstanding he can come back from this he can come back

He feels her nails on his spine he wants her to rip it out so he can die to become part of the ground to melt away into nothingness it hurts when she does it he’s a virgin besides her he used to think it would be cool to fuck an older woman but it’s a lot it’s too much there’s too many rules too many expectations apparently too many people watching catching on he’s gotta be better he’s gotta keep his guard up he’s gotta keep it a secret or else

“Dennis.”

He doesn’t wanna do it anymore he doesn’t want it he doesn’t

“Dennis. Dude.”

Make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stop

“Dennis!”

He flinches.

“You’re crying.”

Dennis reaches up to touch his cheeks. They’re wet. His hands shake.

He gulps, running his fingers through his hair and trying to breathe. All he has to do is breathe. He’s safe. He’s home. Mac’s here. It’s November 10th. Mom and Dad are in Fiji. Dee’s somewhere. Hopefully she’s okay. It was raining a while ago. Rosalita opened the blinds before she left. Dennis watched the autumn leaves fall from their homes in the trees during a storm.

“Is she hurting you?”

He shakes his head. His brain won’t make words, but his mouth does. “It’s mutual.”

“Mutual? Bro, she raped you. She’s still raping you.”

“What? No. N-No. It’s not… it’s not like that.”

His heart thumps, whacks against his chest, begs to be let outside its cage.

“You’re sixteen, Dennis!” He cringes at the exclamation. “She’s an old hag! That can’t be legal!”

“It’s legal because I gave my consent.”

He gave consent. He gave his consent. He gave it the green light. He gave it to her.

“When?” Mac asks. His voice rings in Dennis’ ears.

“What?”

“When? When did you give your ‘consent?’”

Dennis scoffs. “Why does that matter?”

“Because you turned sixteen two months ago, Dennis! That’s, like, no time at all!”

“Sixteen is the age of consent,” he points out.

Mac’s eyes grow wide. They’re brown and dopey. Dennis likes Mac’s eyes. “How old were you when she started raping you?”

He cringes. “Stop,” he whispers, weakly covering his ears with his hands. “This… This is none of your business. I barely even know you.”

“She’s raping you, man! Don’t you get that? Why haven’t you told someone? Why haven’t you ask her to stop?”

Every part of Dennis wants to kick the fucking shit out of Mac, but he can’t. He can’t. He’s a coward. He doesn’t have the energy to fight. He curls in on himself in the bed, crumpling into a ball, a wad of paper being tossed in the trash. He can’t. He can’t. He can’t.

“How long’s she been doing this to you?” Mac whispers. “The whole year so far?”

Dennis whimpers. He feels sick.

“Last year?”

He rocks himself back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.

“Two years?”

Her fingernails scrape against his back. She unzips his jeans. Her touch is ice on a glacier.

“Two years? Dennis…”

What escapes him is not human.

He sobs. He grips on to his chest.

“That’s why you didn’t want to come to school today,” Mac whispers. “Jesus Christ, dude. You have to tell someone.”

Dennis clenches wads of his hair. “No one will believe me.”

He doesn’t know what he’s saying or why he’s saying it.

“Yes, they will, man. What about your mom? Doesn’t she trust you?”

He hiccups. His sobs grow heavier, more uncontrollable. “Tried to tell her.”

“And?”

“S-She… She asked if I-I was good at it…. Fucking…”

He needs a knife he needs a blade he needs a razor Mom told him to stop carving his skin she found cuts on his wrists he’s been doing it for years but she just noticed a few months ago she hates the way it makes his skin mangled and imperfect but Dennis likes looking at them knowing she made him swear never to do it again but Dennis slices open his thighs like Thanksgiving turkeys now punctures his hip bones pinches the flabby skin around his disgusting stomach until he’s purple and blue blue the color of his eyes Mom loves his eyes she loves his eyes too

“What the fuck, bro?”

Mac’s still here why’s he still here

“Dude… I’m… I’m sorry. I… I just assumed something was… I didn’t mean to…”

Didn’t mean to what ruin his life Dennis was doing just fine he was coping just fine she would corner him have her way with him discard him like trash once she was done make him swear over and over again he won’t mutter a word to another living soul she knows she knows he told tomorrow will suck tomorrow will be brutal tomorrow will end his life once and for all

He doesn’t even know Mac has only been talking to him for a month Ronnie the Rat’s in his fucking house accusing him calling him out asking him all these ridiculous nosy questions this has nothing to do with him this is his life he has to live with it he doesn’t understand what would possess someone to enjoy fucking around with him like this Mac must be a sadistic freak Mac must hate him Mac must envy him that’s it he wants to be Dennis is jealous he hasn’t fucked anyone yet well Dennis has fucked someone lots of times she’s older she has experience she tells him she loves him she makes him feel wanted and he keeps coming back for more

“Calm down, Den.”

Den what the fuck is a Den who is Den only Dee calls him that

“Don’t call me that,” he grates out. “Go away.”

“No. No way.”

Dennis cries harder. “Why not?”

“I’m afraid you’ll off yourself if I leave.”

It sounds sheepish Mac sounds sheepish like oops my bad I think I fucked this guy up

“Don’t flatter yourself. Go. I’m fine.”

“You’re crying.”

“Mac.”

“Dennis.”

He feels Mac scooting a little closer to him on the bed. Dennis’ skin singes. He’s on fire.

“Don’t touch me.”

“I’m not.”

“Leave.”

“No.”

“You suck…” Dennis mumbles.

The shakes die down. His eyes are heavy. His vision is foggy, and his heart is leaking into his stomach. He shuts it all off, just for a little while.

“I’ll be right here, Dennis.”

* * *

Dennis’ eyes flutter open. There’s a heavy weight on his side. He almost flinches and scrambles, like he did one time with Mom. She hated that. He lied and said he had a nightmare, that it was an accident, but she didn’t believe him, thought he was repulsed by her. Since then, he’s extra careful not to panic, even if just the idea of being in bed with someone else makes his insides squirm. He doesn’t want them to think he doesn’t like them. It’s better if they feel comfortable.

So, when the weight curls around him a little tighter, his breath catches, but he doesn’t move.

“You okay?”

Dennis winces at the feather-like voice in his ear. Mac. He’s still here.

Which means their conversation wasn’t just a hallucination, the product of Dennis forgetting to eat again or taking too many of Mom’s pills. Fuck. He doesn’t… He doesn’t want to deal with the fallout of their talk, the ramifications of someone else on the planet knowing about her. He shouldn’t know. He should have no idea. But Dennis is too zapped to discuss it any further. He will implode if he does. Instead, he waits for Mac to leave. He gets why he stayed. But now Dennis is up and itching for a blade, wanting to carve his skin, maybe even his arms. He wants to slice his beauty open and see if it shimmers from the inside out.

“Dennis?”

He nods. Clears his throat. “I’m good.”

“You sure, dude? You were, like, whimpering in your sleep.”

Jesus Christ. Can he do anything right today? He’s usually so good – great, even – at hiding his emotions, but now they’re on his sleeve and shit like he’s a twelve year old girl? Fuck.

“I wasn’t whimpering,” Dennis murmurs. The weight is still on his side.

Mac scoffs. “Yeah, you were, like, a lot, bro.”

His voice singes Dennis’ ears. “Stop talking.”

“Why? What did I do?”

Dennis’ eyes widen. He rolls to where he’s on his back, and the weight, apparently Mac’s arm, stays there, stays solid on his stomach. “What did you do? What did you do? You came over here making a mess outta everything; that’s what you did.”

“I made a mess? Dude, your whole life is a mess. You’re getting raped by our school librarian and telling me it’s mutual!”

“It is!” Dennis shouts. “Stop talking about it!”

“No. We should talk about it, man. I get that your mom won’t listen, but I’m here. I’ll call the police. Fuck it. Hand me the phone.”

Dennis sits up. The comforting weight of Mac’s arm disappears. “Don’t you fucking dare.” It’s dark in the room. Dennis can’t see Mac’s eyes, but he can feel them staring him down. He doesn’t like it. “Stop looking at me.”

“You’re fucking whiny, you know that, right?”

“Whatever. Just… Can you just be my friend right now? Can we just not talk about it anymore?”

Mac lets out a sigh. Dennis is torn between wanting to elbow him the eye and asking if he’ll put his arm around him again. “Okay, Den. Okay.”

Because he’s so nice and because he likes the way it sounds coming from Mac, Dennis doesn’t correct him.

“Do you have any bud?” Dennis asks.

“Um, yeah, bro. You’re talkin’ to the only drug dealer on campus here. Of course I’ve got bud!”

Dennis clicks on the bedside lamp and lies back on his pillows as Mac stands to rummage through his backpack. He puts his hands behind his aching head and looks at the yellow stars on the ceiling. His eyes are heavy before Mac even plops down. He knows he should go to sleep. Sleep is the only thing that helps after a day like this. He deserves it, a good night’s rest. He deserves a lot of things, like being able to cut without any questions anywhere he wants. It’s not everyday he’s able to admit it - what happened - to someone. He’s only done it once, and that blew up in his face. But Mac is here, and there is weed and plenty of alcohol downstairs.

Mac pulls crisply rolled joints out of a Ziploc bag. He fishes his lighter out from his jeans. It’s blue with black flames.

“You can have the first hit.”

Dennis inhales as Mac lights him. The taste is earthy and clear, like their lake on a summer afternoon. He and Dee used to swim in that lake constantly growing up. He tokes until Mac snatches it from in between his lips, murmuring something about him hogging it all. But Dennis doesn’t care. Instantly, the weed takes the edge off their conversation, washing off of him and abandoning his worries. He likes drugs. He likes alcohol. They both do the same thing for him. They help him forget and hide and pretend like everything is alright. Because it is. It’s fine.

The room quickly becomes a fortress of smoke. Mac lies down on the bed too, until he’s shoulder to shoulder with Dennis. The touch is good. It’s nothing bad. Mac’s warm and solid and reminds him he’s still here even when he momentarily forgets. Dennis’ eyes close as he listens to Mac hum something catchy and familiar. Dennis has a great voice, but Mac’s humming takes him back to a time where things made sense. They haven’t made sense in a long time.

“What’s the song?” Dennis whispers.

“Under the Bridge,” Mac answers. He keeps humming.

Dennis nods.

The song is dark and describes a lonely life of a man during his heroin addiction, but Mac manages to make it sound light and carefree. He doesn’t understand how he does that. How he can make situations better just by doing nothing. Last week, Dennis was screaming about getting a B on his pre-calc quiz because that Goddamn bitch Mrs. Bradley should’ve given him an A, but Mac listened to him, heard him out, and told him everything is going to be okay. He takes impossibly shitty things and makes them better.

Dennis curls into a ball on his side and presses his forehead against Mac’s bicep. Smoke bubbles up around him like his very own cloud. His very own cloud. Weird. It’d be weird as shit to be a cloud. His head buzzes, and he wants a hamburger, but that’s way too many calories and fats, and the thought of grease dripping down his throat is enough to make him queasy. Idly, he wonders if they have any ice cream. Rosalita is good about keeping their kitchen filled with junk food, especially for Dee because Dee’s a fat cow.

“I’m hungry,” Mac whines, as if on cue. “Please tell me you have food somewhere in this giant mansion.”

“I want a milkshake,” Dennis says, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.

“Oh shit. That sounds so good. Chocolate, y’know?”

Mac rambles some nonsense about making the most perfect chocolate shake, while Dennis stays firmly pressed against Mac. There’s something oddly comforting about being here, almost cosmic in a weird sort of way. He hates touching people, openly hates it, but Mac is solid and reassuring and smells like leather, and Dennis can tell he doesn’t have a menacing bone in his body. Mac would gladly drop anything and everything for Dennis, and Dennis can’t tell if he should take full advantage of that or just sit here and enjoy the moment.

The moment where he finally feels totally relaxed, for once in his life.

The moment where he isn’t so close to the edge he’s about to teeter off.

The moment where Mac stares at him with dopey, chocolate brown eyes.

“Den?”

He gives Mac a small smile. “Yeah?”

“You wouldn’t, like, I dunno, ever do anything bad to yourself, right?”

Dennis rolls his eyes. “Not this again, dude.”

“No! Not like that. Just… I don’t want anything to happen to you, okay?”

He nods. Mac rolls onto his side, leaning his head on his arm. “Nothing bad’s gonna happen to me.”

Dennis scoots until their foreheads touch.

“Is this okay?” Dennis asks.

He’s flush against Mac; Mac nods in the faint evening light.

Dennis presses his lips against Mac’s.

Mac doesn’t pull away.

It’s warm and soft, and Mac tastes like cinnamon gum and hope.

There’s a spark of electricity, of pure, raw, energy that Dennis feels for the first time in his life. Fuck, Mac is a great kisser. Like the dude has some killer moves. Dennis cards his fingers through Mac’s gelled hair. Mac bites Dennis’ bottom lip. He doesn’t… He isn’t… Dennis isn’t sure how this is possible. He’s happy? He thinks. He’s still weird with emotions and can’t really feel them, but he thinks he’s feeling them more right now?

Dennis tries not to blush when Mac plants several kisses in his hair.

“Was that okay?” Mac asks, voice light and airy. “I’ve never, um… kissed a –”

Dennis grabs Mac’s hoodie and tugs him in closer.

Mac’s lips are on his again in a heartbeat, and Dennis melts, deep into the center of bliss.


	2. Chapter 2

_June 29, 1993_

It starts annoyingly, as most things do.

Mac sprouts nonsense about how Dennis needs ‘vitamin E’ because he’s so pale (which isn’t even remotely true; he lays out all the time, but just hasn’t gotten his summer bronze in yet), about how Dennis needs to quit sleeping the whole day (it’s summer; sue him), about how Dennis needs to relax (sleeping is relaxing, but apparently that doesn’t count; he’d relax more if Mac wasn’t up his asshole all the Goddamn time), about how Dennis should do this, about how Dennis should do that, and, Jesus Christ, is he fucking talking again?

Dennis rolls over to glare at Mac, who’s shirtless and eating Red Vines in his bed. “Can you shut the fuck up?”

Mac takes a bite from the Red Vine and proceeds to swing it around in Dennis’ face. “Let’s go out and do something! I’m dying of boredom!”

“You’re not dying of anything,” Dennis reasons. He tugs the comforter back over his shoulders and smushes his face into his pillow.

“You can so die of boredom, Den! Charlie almost died once. He hit his head on a mailbox while we were scooterin’. There was blood everywhere.”

Dennis groans. Clearly, he isn’t going to get anymore sleep. “First off, Charlie didn’t almost die of boredom; he almost died because he’s an unfathomable moron. Second, what the fuck is ‘scootering?’”

“Dude, you’ve never used a scooter before? Like the Razor kind and shit? Bro, I need to culture your ass this summer.”

“Of course I’ve ridden on a scooter, you asshole. I’ve just never heard anyone say something as retarded as ‘scootering’ before.”

Dennis has never been on a scooter in his life. But he’s not about to give that ammo to Mac.

Mac rolls his eyes. “Whatever, bro. I’m so bored!”

“Then leave and go do something more interesting.”

“Not without you, Den.”

“Aw, little Mac likes me,” Dennis teases. Mac flicks his cheek. “Can we just nap for a while?”

He’s tired. Mom keeps coming into his room in the middle of the night, cold fingers against his waist and complaints lodged in between her fingers. She bitches about Dad, about Dee, about money, about the climate, about political endeavors, about anything and everything she can possibly complain about, all while smothering Dennis to death. She tells him to be a ‘good boy,’ to grow up, to keep making her proud, to get his shit together, these conflicting things that swirl in Dennis’ mind each hour of the night. By the time she sneaks back into bed with Dad when he’s home, it’s six AM, and it’s impossible to sleep.

So, yeah, he’s tired. Mac seems to think he’s lazy and whatnot, but that’s not the case. Dennis doesn’t have a single lazy bone in his body. He’s active as shit all the time.

“You just woke up from, like, a three hour nap, Den! I’ve been waiting here for that long!”

“Well, I didn’t make you wait,” Dennis points out.

Mac sighs. He rolls over after inhaling his last Red Vine and slings an arm around Dennis’ waist. Dennis wiggles closer. Mac’s skin is cool and smells like leather and sweat and weed. He rests his forehead on Mac’s chest. “I know you didn’t, but laying around the whole summer isn’t healthy. You need sunlight and food.”

“I haven’t been sleeping,” Dennis admits. He doesn’t care at this point. Mac’s seen him at his worst and never leaves. “I’m so tired all the time.”

Mac nods. He places a featherlight kiss against his temple. Dennis shudders. “I’ll sleepover tonight. She can’t bother you then.”

“Okay.”

Another kiss. “Okay.”

Dennis feels his eyes getting heavy already, the exhausted creaking of his bones, but he gets out of bed anyway. He grabs boxers and a t-shirt before heading into the bathroom. He brushes his teeth and clips his fingernails. He showers and exfoliates. He checks his wounds and slathers them in antibiotic ointment, a couple Band-Aids. He dresses and styles his hair. He doesn’t know what’s happening with him and Mac, but he’s at a breaking point similar to falling off a cliff. He’s falling hard and fast and all at once, but, this time, someone’s there to catch him.

Mac is watching The Simpsons, sprawled out on Dennis’ bed. He looks good there, like it’s right where he belongs. He smiles when he sees Dennis and pats the mattress.

“I have a plan!” Mac announces. “It’s something I’ve been saving for a while. Today seems like a good day because, y’know, you’re up and stuff. But, first, you gotta eat.”

Dennis scowls. It takes a lot of work to look this good. “What’s the plan?”

“I just said you have to eat first before I’ll tell you,” Mac says.

“I’ll eat when you tell me what it is.”

“Dude, I’m gonna go get that one lady to make you a grilled cheese, okay?”

Dennis rolls his eyes. “Whatever,” he mumbles as Mac hops up. “Get tomato soup too.”

“Got it!”

Dennis relaxes against the headboard. It’s never exactly a good thing when Mac has these ‘plans.’ One plan involved Dennis getting chased by a definitely rabid dog down Market Street. No shit, he almost lost his leg. He has a faint scar from the dog’s teeth right there on his shin. But scars like that are good, distinguished. Chicks dig scars. But whatever Mac has in store for today better not involve rabid dogs or chases. Or mannequins. Mannequins are weird as shit.

Mac comes back fifteen minutes later with a tray in hand. He settles it over Dennis’ lap. There are two grilled cheeses, lightly grilled just like he loves, a bowl of tomato soup, a glass of ice water, and a beer. “Drink the water first,” Mac commands, and it’s funny how Dennis doesn’t listen to anyone, certainly won’t eat in front of anyone, but he does it for Mac.

He makes it through one grilled cheese before he starts feeling queasy. “I can’t eat anymore.”

“That’s fine, Den. You did good. Drink the water, and I’ll tell you what we’re doing today.”

Dennis rolls his eyes. He downs the water. “Well?”

Mac holds out a tiny slab of foil in the palm of his hand. “We’re gonna trip balls!”

“Is that acid?” Dennis asks. “Where the shit did you get acid?”

“I’m a good drug dealer, Dennis. I get all the good drugs.”

“You’ve never once had acid before.”

“I have too! Like you’d ever buy acid anyway. You’re too chicken shit for it, bro.”

Dennis’ eyes widen. “You’re literally giving me acid right now!”

“And you might die, dude, but it’ll be worth it.”

He gulps. He isn’t sure about this. Sure, he’s taken his mom’s pills before and gotten high off those, but that’s more of a grounded high than anything. He smokes weed all the time, more so now with Mac than ever before, but he always knows which way is up and how to handle himself. This? This is new and dangerous and alters brain chemistry, and Dennis isn’t sure he wants his brain chemistry altered. Some days, it’s bad enough on its own.

“I dunno,” Dennis admits.

“It isn’t that bad,” Mac says. “I was just busting your balls.”

“Have you done it before?”

Mac nods. “Once. About a year ago. Me ‘n Charlie tripped in his backyard. It was awesome. I saw all sorts of cool shit.”

“Like what?”

“It’s hard to describe. You’ll know what I mean when you do it. But there’s lots of cool colors, and things moving that shouldn’t be moving, and everything just becomes so… connected? Like, I felt good, y’know? The best I felt in ages after it was over. It was a totally life-changing experience.”

Dennis shrugs, insides wavering. “I really dunno, Mac. I’m… Sometimes, I get…”

“I get it, man. Look, I’ll be with you the whole time. I won’t let anything bad happen.”

“Okay,” he says. “But don’t give me too much.”

“It’s just a tab.” Mac unfolds the foil and produces two tiny pieces of paper with Yogi the Bear’s face stamped on them. “You just put it on your tongue, and then your spit brings the acid to life.”

Dennis’ eyebrows furrow. He doesn’t know about this, but he puts it on his tongue anyway. He certainly isn’t going to be the only one not tripping.

“It takes a time to kick in,” Mac informs. “Put some pants on. We’ll go out in nature. That’s, like, the best place to be when you’re tripping.”

He nods wordlessly, running fingers through his hair before he pulls on jeans, socks, and shoes. He tugs a flannel over his t-shirt. He doesn’t feel any different. Most of his worries intensify as he and Mac bound down the stairs. There’s a clanking in his chest telling him this is no good, this will end badly, this will ruin him, this will destroy he and Mac, but Mac seems so fucking positive about it. Maybe it won’t be bad. Maybe he can convince himself everything will be okay, even though, in his usual life, that tactic never works.

Mac stops him when they get outside the back door. The yard opens up in fantastic greenery. Grass shimmers in the summer sun. Dennis squints, and Mac produces a pair of sunglasses. “Look, I know you’re freakin’ out, Den, but don’t worry. You’ll have a blast. Trust me.”

Dennis doesn’t trust anyone in the world, but he trusts Mac.

They wander through the giant backyard until they leave the fenced grounds. The property for miles is still theirs, belonging to the Reynolds’ family, where the woodsy area and lake reside. It’s vast and foreign. Dennis hasn’t traveled beyond these walls since he was ten, maybe eleven, when everything started feeling so heavy, so drenched in dread it would weigh him down just by stepping outside his bedroom. He started falling asleep during class in fifth grade. Dee would hit him with spit balls, and their teacher would yell at them both but send Dennis to the principal’s office. This is nothing like fifth grade. Mac would never hit him with spit balls.

When they were little, Dee and Dennis ran these woods like they were their own. They were king and queen of this small segment of the universe, and it was safe. Dennis is happy to relive the memories with Mac by his side, who is scoping out the treehouse some men built when the twins were five. Dennis chuckles when he sees the rope swing attached to a large branch; he pushed Dee off that thing once, and she scratched up her palms. The second Dennis went to swing on it next, she pushed him, and he busted his chin.

“The fuck, man?” Mac says. “You’ve been holding out on me!”

Mac’s voice is as loud and vibrant as the trees. He looks up, head dizzy, and spots a bird nest.

“Earth to Dennis!” he hears.

Looking back down is hard. His brain feels heavy, yet spacy and disconnected. “What?” His voice is off to his own ears.

He eyes the treehouse behind Mac, and the thing straight up moves. Like actually moves. It’s weird, because treehouses can’t move on their own. They aren’t animate objects. Or are they? Inanimate objects? Reanimate projects? Something like that. But it’s wavering in front of him, and the colors bleed into each other, and he hears birds squawking from above, and he laughs. Dee’s a bird. He calls her that all the time. Every now and then, it makes her cry.

“You feelin’ it, dude?”

Dennis looks at Mac again, deadest on seeing him in person instead of straight through him. “I think so.”

He holds out his hand and waves it in front of his face. His hand goes in slow motion, a trail following behind the movements. Huh. His hand has a tail.

“My hand has a tail,” he says. His teeth feel funny.

Mac cackles like a witch.

Dennis plops down on the gravel without warning, sitting crisscross applesauce. He plucks a clover growing between the rocks and rubs it in between his fingers. Oh shit. He just killed this kid. This clover could’ve been someone’s son, someone’s brother. Maybe he’s a girl. Do clovers have genders? His eyes widen before they sadden. Imagine a world filled with just clovers instead of humans. That’d be weird. So weird. This is weird.

He feels like liquid. Like water. He wonders if the clover could slip right through him like a stream.

Mac sits down beside him at some point, but Dennis isn’t sure when. Time is irrelevant, he decides. He also decides that tripping is awesome. Colors are bright and loud, but heightened and beautiful. He stares at the bird nest in the tree. There are baby birds in there waiting for their mom. He wonders what color they are. If they’re red like cardinals or blue like robins. He’s sure birds can be other colors too, but yellow just makes him think of Big Bird.

“Am I naked?” he asks Mac. He doesn’t look at him, doesn’t move his eyes from the bird nest.

He imagines Mac’s nose scrunching. Mac has a cute nose scrunch. “Naked? No, bro. You’re, like, fully clothed.”

“I’m not your ‘bro,’” Dennis mumbles. He chuckles. “’Bro.’ That’s a funny word.”

“Bro,” Mac repeats. He wonders if words feel strange to Mac too.

“I feel naked,” Dennis says. “Like… exposed? But you say I’m not naked, right?”

There’s no answer, but Dennis doesn’t need one. The universe is whole, really real for the first time in ages.

It’s electric, this slice of life.

The air is open, and he can feel it in between his fingertips. The baby birds chirp, and he smiles. The sun shines just right on Mac’s face, and Dennis can’t help but think he’s beautiful, all wrapped up in his own little world. The look of focus and determination and wide-eyed giddiness isn’t lost on him. Mac looks like a kid again, and Dennis feels like a kid again, and it’s nice knowing – and believing – that anything is possible.

* * *

The heaven-touching summit of the hill broods and looms over them, drenched in brilliant, explosive light. He is small, a young boy on the edge of discovering what it means to be alive, but it isn’t a trance worth breaking. They sit on the grass overlooking the view, silence and laughter soaking into his bones. They sip slowly on this illusion of life, transfixed, because being here, right here and right now, is almost cosmic, out of this universe.

The thin, exposed chill of night seeps through the balmy late June day. He glances over at Mac, arms splayed out on his legs, bare feet in the grass. His downward slanted eyes are wide open. His red t-shirt is sticky with sweat. He smells like iron and yeast.

He doesn’t know how it happens, but it gets dark surprisingly fast, and mosquitos slurp on them, a buffet of Philly, LSD-injected blood. Dennis scoots closer to Mac, leaning his head on his shoulder and inhaling deeply. They should’ve brought a tent out here or something because the house is agonizingly far away. They went back earlier, stumbling and giggling, for provisions, and everything looked foreign, like Dennis hadn’t spent his entire life there. They’re here, collecting dust and growing old. He can’t bring himself to move. He’s afraid everything will fall to pieces if he does.

“It’s so beautiful,” Mac whispers. Dennis melts into Mac’s voice.

Dennis nods, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s still rolling pretty hard. The hills sway with the pattern of his breathing.

The wind stirs, awakening the trees and bringing the earth to life. Dennis listens to frogs croak and bugs buzz in the distance. He hopes the baby birds’ mom came back to feed them.

“I’m gonna lay down,” Mac announces. He does, and Dennis follows suit, instantly repositioning himself with his head on Mac’s chest.

And he thinks. Thinks about life, the past, what he could be, who he is. Who he was.

He’s five and just starting to understand what memories are, how to weave into and intersect in his life like patterns woven together on a quilt. He’s five and doesn’t understand why his parents fight a lot, why Mommy sulks into his room really late at night, lazily wrapping herself around him and whispering in his ear. He’s five and knows that he’s his mommy’s best.

He remembers turning six. Mommy smells like rum and hard cider. Her fingers are ice against his waist. He tries to tell her no, that he doesn’t like it, that it hurts, but she shushes him and promises to buy him a new Lego set – just for him and not Dee – if he lets her do it. He’s six and learns to turn his brain off, to float away from the pain. He learns not to be emotional about it. Mommy says emotions are for babies, and he’s not a baby; he’s six.

And, then, he’s seven, and he falls out of Count Rootula in their backyard. Dee screams and runs to get Josefina because she’s scared of the blood gushing from his forehead, the way his right arm’s twisted and bruised. He’s seven and remembers liking the way blood flows in between his fingers, how soothing it is to feel something. He’s seven and doesn’t get emotions or why they’re so important, but he gets a cool green cast and stitches, and Mommy cuddles him more at night.

He’s ten. Dad yells at him for falling asleep in class. He can’t help it. He’s always tired, like when his allergies act up and Mommy gives him two tiny pink pills to help. He’s ten and can’t keep his head up during science or math, and he hides out in the library during recess, curled up on the floor beneath his Tommy Hilfiger jacket.

He remembers being twelve. Dee is suddenly into boys, and he isn’t even sure he likes girls. They’re twins, so they’re supposed to go through milestones at the same time, he thinks. Sure, Dee’s a girl, so she’s taller than him by two inches, but Mommy says that’s normal, that he’ll catch up and be much taller than her one day. He’s twelve, and he has his first kiss under the bleachers during a pep rally. Her name’s Rachel Madden, and her breath tastes like dog shit.

Suddenly, he’s thirteen. He’s a teenager, and Mom still sneaks into his room in the middle of night. He hates the smell of cigarettes on her breath. Hates that she’s doing this to him, and he can’t tell anybody. No one will believe him anyway. He’s thirteen, and his only friend is his twin sister, who is dating some guy named Craig Horowitz that’s three years older than both of them. He’s thirteen when he rifles through his dad’s bathroom and steals a razor for the first time.

Ms. Klinsky sees a skinny, hopeless fourteen year old boy with curly hair and braces, and he knows this, but he’s flattered anyway. It’s easy to be flattered. Mom always says he’s a handsome, special boy, and he guesses she’s right because girls fall all over him, tripping over themselves to be with him. Ms. Klinsky is his first, and it hurts, but it’s cool because they aren’t any expectations, and she tells him it’s alright, to take his time, to really feel it. He’s fourteen and goes home after, crying softly and slashing his forearms with Dad’s razor. Mom comes in later that night to ask what’s wrong, why he didn’t come out for dinner, and he says nothing. Mom says it’s alright because he could stand to lose a few pounds anyway. He’s fourteen and remembers not eating much anymore because it fills the emptiness in his chest; it helps.

He’s fifteen, and Dee gets her learner’s permit before him. He breaks his bathroom mirror. He’s fifteen, and Dee brags about banging Craig Horowitz. He slashes Dee’s bike tires with the same pocket knife he uses on his thighs later that evening. He’s fifteen, and Dee gets a back brace because her spine is 95% scoliosis, and he gets his braces removed after eighteen months of torture. He celebrates with Mom, drinking whiskey and smoking his first cigarette. Mom tells him not to worry, that he won’t get in trouble because this, like other things, is their little secret.

And then he’s sixteen, and he meets Ronnie the Rat behind the dumpster before first period. He knows Ronnie the Rat sells weed, and he thinks he needs some because his stomach constantly hurts, and he’s whittling away his gorgeous skin with a knife in between classes. Weed is supposed to help people relax. He thinks he needs the relaxation, to not have to be perfect, to not have the weight of the world resting on his shoulders. He’s sixteen, and Ronnie the Rat and this shirt kid named Dirt Grub make him smoke with them. He coughs and coughs, sure that his throat is bleeding, but he feels… free for the first time in ages.

Now… Dennis is here. On the massive Reynolds’ property with Mac – formerly known as Ronnie the Rat – underneath him. He remembers and remembers and remembers, but it all seems to tedious when he really thinks about it. That stuff… it’s in the past. He can’t change it. He can’t change the way his mom touches him or the way Dad mocks him or how she stalks him like a predator does its prey. It’s inherently depressing, but what good will worrying do? He’s making himself miserable. He’s miserable. He may as well enjoy some of his life too, right?

“The stars are really pretty,” Dennis says, clearing his throat after. The memories sting as they wash away, but he wants them gone. He remembers and remembers and remembers, but now they need to go. He just wants to be here with Mac.

Mac hums. Dennis doesn’t flinch when Mac cards his fingers through his hair. He’s so beautiful. So handsome and strong, and he always lifts Dennis up when he’s down. He doesn’t know why Mac does this, why he sticks around, but he’s thankful.

Fuck, is he blushing? Please tell him he isn’t blushing.

He’s fucking blushing. Goddammit, Mac.

But Dennis feels like they’ve spent their whole lives together, that Mac understands him, that Mac is that empty piece in his chest. He’s always cold, even in the middle of summer, but Mac warms him instantly and in ways unimaginable. Mac just… He’s the first person to ever make Dennis actually feel something. Mac should be stoked. Dennis knows he isn’t an easy person to get along with or be friends with.

“Do you think…” He lets out a horrifyingly shaky breath. “Do you think we could ever be something more than this?”

Mac stops running his fingers through his hair. “What do you mean?”

Dread courses through his veins. It’s furiously hot. Sweat pools around the collar of Dennis’ flannel. His breath catches, tight in his throat. Fuck. He can’t. He can’t do this. Tears swell in his eyes, and his stomach swims as he blearily removes himself from Mac’s chest. He lays down beside him instead.

“Hey,” Mac says, his hand warm on Dennis’ cheek. “What’s going on up there?”

Dennis dies when Mac wipes his tears away with his thumb. “I think I might love you,” he blurts out.

He means it. He means it. He means it.

“I mean… Sorry,” he says quickly. “I… It’s the drugs. They’re fucking with my head.”

Mac scoots closer until their foreheads touch. He brushes Dennis’ hair from his forehead. Mac traces his fingers over his cheek, tapping his chin and pulling his lips closer to his own. He exhales, warm, soft, wet lips on Dennis’ in a heartbeat. Dennis hums into his mouth. Mac peels his layers like an onion. Mac understands him. Mac lights up his entire universe. He doesn’t get why he’s so drawn to Mac, can’t fathom the hold he has over him, but, honestly, he doesn’t care to look into it because his world is better when Mac’s around.

He relaxes against Mac’s touch, the featherlike feeling of his fingertips ghosting over his skin. Mac lazily trails kisses all over Dennis’ neck, suckling gently; Dennis inhales sharply. Dennis straddles Mac’s lap, massaging the nape of his hair. Being around Mac is like diving into the ocean, waiting for the oxygen tank to run out and sending him sinking to the floor. Dennis sucks on Mac’s tongue, hands grabbing at Mac’s hips and grinding the two of them together. Mac moans into Dennis’ mouth, and Dennis is here.

In the morning, they’ll blame it on the drugs.

But, right now, he’s here.

He’s alive.

And it’s wonderful.


End file.
